


Cold

by double_negative



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Child Abuse, Fire, Gen, Headcanon, Human Experimentation, Isolation, Psychic Abilities, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 15:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/double_negative/pseuds/double_negative
Summary: The fire crackles at his fingertips as he scrambles for a meaning.





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> I live an hour away from that particular "academic town in Novosibirsk" that Kaz mentions in the beggining of Third Boy tapes.  
> So this is strongly inspired by living in Novosibirsk and having 5 months of freezing winter. No one deserves this. Especially not my son.

He slowly passes the fingertips of his right hand over his left arm, dragging them along his chilly bones and repeats the gesture, mirroring it with the other arm. Heat radiates from his palms, unseen if not for the slight warp of the air around his fingers as he rolls up the sleeves of his oversized shirt. He doesn't want to risk the fabric catching on fire. He doesn't want them to notice, he shouldn't be doing this in the first place, for his own safety, for the safety of all others, but he's so cold.

He chases away the goosebumps that always rise up on his bone-thin legs, stills the shiver that wracks his ribcage. He's so cold and no amount of blankets or heating seems to ever fix it.

They watch him from the other side of the camera, he knows, he can feel them sometimes and when he does, he doesn't dare to let even a bit of the fire that lives inside him out. Because if they notice, they will get angry, just like father did. And if someone gets angry, he is lost. Losing time, losing thoughts, losing memory, coming back only to death and ruin, to scorched earth and ash in the air.

They don't treat him badly, from what he can tell, but he never really been around people that much. He lifts the memories of their own children, loved ones, picks them one by one straight from their minds for comparison and reference, but finds nothing offensive in his treatment. Sure, the tests hurt sometimes, but they always feed him and keep him clean and give him personal space and that is so much better than anything he has ever had. No one really tries to hurt him on purpose, so he doesn't really care. He knows they are talking about him amongst each other, and when they aren't talking, they are thinking, but no one is angry, no one is mad. He knows they will be once they found out what they wanted to all along, they will be once they see what a freak he is. It's actually inevitable, so he doesn't really care.

The only thing he wants is for his room to be a little warmer.

Invisible fire burns on the palms of his hands as he wraps himself in a tight hug over and over. He doesn't really know why people hug each other, but if it makes them less cold, he understands. No one has ever hugged him. He remembers, because the memories from his father's mind were so loud, so easy to steal and call his own, so even the times he can't recall at all because of how small he was are clear in his mind's eye.

He remembers the bitter, resentful voice wondering where the hell "that stupid brat" have gone, calling out to him. He remembers words he didn't know the meaning of then, being shouted at him, his father screaming, then stuttering over an insult in shock and falling silent. He remembers that single sentence that hurt more than any beating his father would unleash on him did. Then he remembers nothing but flame.

The scenery outside his window is the same as ever. It's jagged, black, naked silhouettes of[ ****](https://www.google.ru/search?newwindow=1&dcr=0&q=silhouettes&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjdpOm3wJPYAhXSY1AKHaGuCIIQvwUIJCgA&biw=1150&bih=645)trees covered with heavy mounds of pillowy white snow, snow on the branches, swept over the ground, as far as he can see. It was just like this when he arrived at the facility and the scenery he would see from the eyes of a driver that took him there was the same, save for the road before him, an inky warped stretch for miles and miles.

From what he understands, he has been her for almost half a year now, but nothing has ever changed. The view outside his window is black and white. His own room is black and white, black metal furniture and white linen sheets. He himself is in black and white, black shirt and almost transluscent white skin that didn't see actual sun rays in so long. The people that visit him are white coats and black shoes and only their minds hold the images of color.

 

His hair is red, like fire, he is reminded one day, when it grows long enough to fall around his eyes in soft waves, just long enough to see at the edge of his vision. It's red just like his mother's. It's red like "you should have died instead, you witch". It's red and curly and when he plucks a hair from his head, toying with it, he can always feel the flame inside him burn brighter, stronger, crashing over him over and over in roaring bursts, waves, begging to be let out, to be freed, but he keeps quiet, he keeps still, he keeps hidden. They won't hurt him yet if he keeps pretending, so for now he has no reason to hurt them back.

He leeches off their experiences, little by little, one by one so no one would really notice, but looking through this collection of colorful pictures, he finds no interest in them, no meaning or purpose at all. He knows from what he's lifted from them, that human beings have desires, drives, ambitions. Human beings have personalities. He wonders if he can steal one just like he stole everything he knows about the world around him. Maybe he can borrow one for himself one day. Maybe he can play pretend like kids his age apparently do.

But for now, he has everything he needs and though the tests are sometimes painful and his room is awfully cold, he doesn't dare to wish for more.


End file.
